


Wonderwall

by Kawaii_Kitty360



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Multi, Not Beta Read, Reader is not Frisk or Chara, Reader plays guitar, Slow Burn, at least im hoping, author doesn't play guitar nor know anything about gigs or anything so expect inaccuracies, idk what this is tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-14 22:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20608430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaii_Kitty360/pseuds/Kawaii_Kitty360
Summary: You’re a freelance musician, working odd gigs here and busking in parks there, just doing what you love and hoping to bless other people’s days with music.You’re a go-with-the-flow kinda person, so when your day is suddenly interrupted by a paper, caught by the passing breeze, smacking you in the face, how can you say no to Fate?





	Wonderwall

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhhhhhh  
if you know me, you know i already have an undertale fic in the works.  
you also know i abandoned it.  
lowkey not sorry because it suCKED LMAO  
i mean this is gonna suck too, but, like,  
not as bad as 2016 suck.  
anyway hope you enjoy!

A harsh shiver wracks your body and you hiss as you clutch the straps holding your guitar to your back. It’s dusk, the pale light of the sun setting somewhere beyond all the buildings that loom above your head giving the city a cold atmosphere that matches the bite of the breeze. Though dressed in a thick coat, it’s hard to protect your face from the autumn chill, especially without the sun to warm your body through it all, and your nose is facing the windy wrath. Luckily enough, your apartment isn’t too far from your favorite busking spot, Honeylemon Park, and you keep your head down and pace even to try and get there quicker. You’re not sure why you torture yourself in this way- you knew it was windy and that temperatures have been steadily dropping as winter approaches, but with every hour you told yourself ‘just one more song’.

You vow to never do that again as your apartment comes into view. Quickening your pace, you dig in your pockets to pull out your keys when something white and flimsy comes flying at you.

You have no time to react, and you let out a startled yelp as the object makes contact, molding itself around your face and blinding you momentarily.

You grab it with one hand, keeping a firm hold on your case with the other, and peel the item off. It’s a flyer.

** HELP WANTED **

_Entertainers Needed. 20G/h._

_Inquire at Grillby’s_

The background image is of a cozy-looking establishment composed of mainly oranges and browns. If memory serves, Grillby’s is a monster-owned restaurant (or bar or pub or something like that) just a few blocks away from Honeylemon Park.

Wait wait wait, 20G per hour?!

Shoving the flyer in your back pocket, you about-face and make your way back the way you came. No way in hell are you passing that up. That is a _steal!_

The walk to Grillby’s is faster than you expected and down the street, you see the telltale lights of an open venue. You nearly whoop aloud as you jump up the stairs and pull the door open.

The place is packed. It’s a small joint anyway, but every booth and table is taken, and the atmosphere is lively and fills your body with much-needed warmth. Nobody notices your arrival, all eyes pinned somewhere to the side, and you turn your head to see a skeletal monster sitting on a stool in the corner of the room, holding a microphone with a lazy grin. You made it in just enough time to hear the punchline to his joke.

“so then i said, ‘hey, you are what you eat’.”

The response is uproarious. Smatters of laughter and good-natured shouts of ‘Get off the stage!’ and other various responses come from the patrons, but the guy just shrugs with a wink and responds with, “come on, throw me a bone, would’ja? i’m not used to such a lively audience.”

You pull your guitar closer to your back and move further into the establishment, beelining for the bar, where a man made of fire stands, running a cloth along the inside of a mug. There’s a stool missing between the last one and the one a bird-like monster is sitting- you assume it’s the stool the skeleton is using, and you step right into the gap. You grab the flyer from your pocket and smooth it out, offering it to the man as you say, “Hey, uh, I caught this flyer and was wondering if you guys still need an entertainer?”

The man doesn’t respond, though his head does lift towards you. The silence stretches, the only noise being laughter and the slight sound of burning firewood. You raise your hand to motion towards the corner, where the skeleton is telling another joke, when a voice to your left startles you.

“Grillbz says we are, but Sans has the floor tonight,” the bird tells you, and you blink, impressed by the bird’s ability to translate the crackling into words.

‘Sans’ is probably the skeleton’s name, you deduce, and it takes a second to realize exactly what had been said. “Wait, you’re Grillby?”

More silence, more cracking, more laughter. Your gaze slowly slides to the bird, who takes a long sip of their drink before pulling the glass away and saying, “He sure is. He’s owned his own business for years. Best food in the entire underground- and on the surface,” they add with a wink.

Wow, big name. You once again find yourself impressed as you glance around. No wonder the place is quaint. Poor guy’s probably worked thin, as it seems like he’s the only employee in his charge. Maybe you should offer to help rather than perch on a stool and strum your guitar for a few hours.

“Grillby wants to know what you’re offering.”

“Oh,” you jolt, adjusting your guitar case. “I play guitar. I’ve done some gigs in the past, but I mainly busk over at Honeylemon Park. What are you looking for?”

Another stretch of silence, but it’s less awkward this time around. Almost instantly, you look towards the bird as the crackling continues, only to find them staring at Sans. Well, there goes your translator.

“.....................atmosphere.”

You jump nearly out of your own damn skin, looking to see Grillby staring down at his mug now. His fire seems to be burning a little brighter, churning a little quicker through the air. “What?” He could speak?!

He motions to the jukebox- one you didn’t even notice before now- in the corner diagonally across from the corner Sans currently occupies. “................................the jukebox is broken.” His voice sounds just like you’d expect, words spoken between the popping of firewood.

“Ah,” you hum, nodding your head. “So you just want some music until the jukebox gets repaired?”

Grillby nods- at least you’re pretty sure he does. It’s kind of hard to tell when he doesn't have a face, but his glasses bob up and down, so you just assume.

“I can come in tomorrow, if you want. Seems like, uhh… Sans has it covered for tonight.”

“He sure does,” the bird chirps, and you glance their way. “We’ve been trying to get him to do a show way before we even got up here. He would always refuse, though. Said he had too many other jobs to do. I think it was just an excuse- I don’t think I’ve seen him work a day in his life.”

“Wouldn’t you count that as working?” you ask, motioning towards the direction of the guy in question.

“Nah, he’s not making any money.”

Oh. Weird. “Why not?”

The bird shrugs. “His choice. Plus his tab’s too big; any money he’d be making would be going towards paying it off.”

You suppose that makes sense. “He chose not to get paid?”

“Yeah. Maybe he knew it would just go towards his tab.”

“He doesn’t want to pay it off?”

The bird snorts. “Sometimes, I think he’s proud of how much money he owes.”

It’s hard to tell, but you’re pretty sure Grillby looks peeved. He must owe a lot, if his tab could cause a faceless man to pull such an annoyed expression. You’re about to comment when you hear someone approaching from behind.

“Human,” a voice suddenly states, and, beside yourself, your skin crawls in anticipation. “Don’t you know how to greet a new pal? Turn around and shake my hand.”

You turn to see Sans, lazy grin and all, offering his hand your way. You release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding and reach out to take his outstretched hand. What surprises you the most is how soft his hand actually feels against your own--

_Fffffbttppbbbthh…_

Wait.

Oh, no.

If possible, he grins even wider. “ah, the old whoopie-cushion-in-the-hand joke. always a classic.”

**Author's Note:**

> mmmm tbh not sure where i'm going, but hey, much like Reader-chan, i'm a go-w-the-flow kinda guy ;}


End file.
